


Untold Tales

by Quiet_Shadow



Series: Prompts and Bunnies [5]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Dubious Consent, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiet_Shadow/pseuds/Quiet_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short stories about various characters...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So That Something Remains of Me...

They called it a reward for his successes. Personally, Megatron rather thought they were finding another way to get more money out of him by exploiting the lust of the viewers of the gladiator matches. They were turning him into… into an overpriced stud!

His ‘benefactors’ liked to argue that whatever they asked of him was pleasurable and that he should feel honored and proud to be so sought after by mechs and femmes coming from all the castes of Cybertron’s society: merchants, scribes, artisans, nobles,… They were for him to enjoy, or rather he was theirs to enjoy… for the right price, of course.

Now, he didn’t mind the fragging that much. The miner turned gladiator enjoyed physical pleasure as much as any mech, perhaps even more so, because after spending so much time working in the dark, back when he was still a simple worker, alone, without much contact with anyone outside of fellow miners who, like him, focused more on their work than on any form of intimacy…

No, interfacing with random bots wasn’t the real problem. It was more about being forced to do it, and to know he was being used.

His only comfort was that people tended to crave his spike more than his valve, aside of a few mechs with twisted fantasies of domination, and unless they paid very, very well, his contractors tended to just discourage them. They were fonder of accepting money and eventual favors of random ‘clients’ who just begged for even a single night cycle with the powerful, famous Megatron, in the hope of bearing his sparklings. It baffled him, really. Why did they want to try and get sparked by him so much, of all the mechs? Why even try for a sparkling when their life conditions were already so hard without the burden of a little, defenceless lifeform?

The grey mech knew full well that some poorer bots economized long and hard to try and gain access to him and his ‘favors’. Honestly, shouldn’t they be more worried in getting fuel? Spare more money to pay their rents? To move into a richer area, to get a better standing in society?

Why was interfacing with a gladiator so important, so much more than their basic survival and dignity?

It was something few of them could answer without sputtering, shocked at his words. It was like they had never thought of it that way before. Megatron suspected it was the way they were encouraged to work by members of the upper class; they more or less kept the processors of the lower classes numb with cheap entertainment, offering so much ‘indispensable’ things they ‘absolutely needed’, forcing them to spend hard-won credits in futility and shaping their minds so they wouldn’t ask themselves twice if what they were doing was what was best for them.

Electrosheeps, all of them. It really bugged him.

Victory after victory, his name became more famous in the gladiatorial rings, and more and more mechs sought him out. It was to the point he barely ever spend a night cycle alone anymore. He had no shortage of lovers, from one night-stand paying for his services to the prostitutes hired to ‘sooth’ the various gladiators’ feelings.

But he was mainly seeing mechs having paid for him.

Some were… tolerable, he supposed. Especially those who belonged to the lower half of the middle class. They didn’t make him feel nearly as used as the Nobles did. Eck, some of them didn’t even think they were using the gladiator. Fans, especially, just wanted a chance to meet him up close and deluded themselves about the feelings of their idol. They were so hopelessly naïve that they didn’t even realize Megatron was somehow reluctant to interface with them. They didn’t fully understand they were paying for interfacing. Some had just thought they were paying to meet him, and that Megatron was honestly showing an interest in them, thus the fragging.

Fools, all of them. But they made good berthfellows, so he kept his sarcastic comments to himself.

Less tolerable were those paying specifically for him to knock them up. These were far in between, but they existed. And most of them were so foul individuals that Megatron half-hoped that any Sparkling he Sired on them wouldn’t reach its final upgrade, if only to avoid turning into such slagging bastards themselves.

Mechs like that, who usually belonged to the upper classes of the society, ‘rented’ night cycle after night cycle in order to get what they wanted, then they left, and if Sparklings had indeed been kindle by the encounters, he had never heard of them. Wasn’t it cruel for him, to never see or hear of the ones he might have sparked?

Then again, a couple of the ones asking for his services in Siring their Sparklings were decent fellows.

There had been one mech… A youthful thing with fluttering doorwings, shifting uneasily from one pedes to the other. He had been nervous, intimidated by Megatron, but to be fair, the grey mech had towered over him, glaring, unwilling to play nice for once; he rarely was with mechs who wanted to get impregnated. Usually, he stayed coldly distant and impersonal with bots like these. All they wanted was repeated frags in order to get a Bitlet -- no, they weren’t even hoping for a real Sparkling, they were hoping for some kind of investment; they were purchasing Megatron’s codes to kindle strong offsprings who they hoped would get their Sire’s talent and charisma, so they could use them to further their own ambitions. Disgusting.

Was a new life only worth what it could accomplish for them?

He hadn’t thought he would ever meet a truly good mech among the ones seeking him out like that. But this one… this one had been different. For one, he had only paid for one night with Megatron; he wasn’t rich enough to pay for more, something his owners had made him acutely aware of.

He had all but scoffed at the pretty little thing before the tables had somewhat turned.

Despite his fear, the young mech had looked at Megatron right in the optics, trying not to waver as he stated he wanted a Sparkling by Megatron because he wanted his offspring to have a chance for survival.

“Sooner or later, I think Cybertron will hit a low point where… where survival might be hard. I don’t know when that’ll be, but I’m certain it will comes to pass. And when it happens… I don’t know if I will be strong enough to survive it. But I want something of me to be left behind, I want at least one of my Creations to live and survive. However, to do that, they’d need a special kind of Spark… a kind of unbending inner steel that the average bot doesn’t possess. I saw you in the arena, pitted against every fighter and mechanimal they could think off. I saw you fight and bleed and rage and scream, injured, energon splashing over you. You looked… you looked like a demon from the Pit, and in truth, you scared me. But at the same time, when I heard you roar in victory, and heard the crowd roar with you, I just… I just saw how you were surviving. Whatever happens to throw off our planet into chaos, I doubt you’ll fold and die. And I want my future Creations to be just like you. That even in spite of the odds and possible tragedy, it will just go back to its feet and stand its ground.”

That… had been the strangest thing Megatron had ever heard, but it had struck something deep inside him. The speech given by the mech had been clumsy and cut off by sputtering, but it had somehow aroused him. He hadn’t asked for the mech’s name, just led him to the berth and interfaced with him all night.

The mech had chattered mindlessly during all their time together, even in the middle of the interfacing. Chatting about his (uninteresting) life, his (uninteresting) job, his (uninteresting) family and his (somewhat interesting) dreams. About anything he could think about, really. From his Sparklinghood, growing up in a poor district of Cybertron, with a Sire lost in a mining incident, and several siblings who barely got by being worker in some of the most dangerous factories. He spoke of what he went through, of what he hoped for the future. He spoke naively of a better future, of changing job and follow his Spark’s true calling, helping the ones less fortunate than him.

A too nice mech, the gladiator had thought.

Megatron had listened, even as he rocked into the body under him. Listened and tried to commit some info to memory, in case some day he’d get out of the gladiatorial fights and tracked his current lover down, to see him and their offspring. He never asked for designation and place of residence, though. It could be dangerous to show too much interest into someone (he knew, just knew getting attached was a weakness that could be exploited against him, and he wasn’t willing to take the risk). He just looked and listened, taking note of the blue optics, the red chevrons, the doorwings and slim waist.

He wondered, in the midst of passion, what the mech would look like, finely polished, at his arm as he harangued the masses (for already, he was dreaming of changing things for the poors, to upset the status quo and bring down the corrupt Council and Prime). A quiet shadow following him around, radiating kindness for the more unfortunate members of their society, rallying them to Megatron’s ideals.

He wondered also what a hypothetical offspring produced by them both would be like. Would it favour Megatron in body and mind, strong and ruthless and cruel when he needed to be, standing proud, a leader born? Or would it favour its Carrier, smaller and kind, soft and smiling, and tempered by Megatron’s strength? For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine any Sparkling of him not knowing how to hold its ground in a fight. Even if its ended lithe like its Carrier, it would certainly be a fighter… hand-to-hand… sharp-shooter, perhaps…

Wistful thinking, he knew.

Came the morning, the mech went away, after a last soft and chaste kiss on his lips, and wishes for his continued well-being. Megatron didn’t say anything. However, he held the mech close to him briefly, clenching his shoulders briefly with a nod before the mech was escorted out of the gladiator’s quarters.

Megatron would never see him again. Though he did a token effort in tracking him down, he quickly forgot about it, as more pressing and dangerous matters entered his processors.

_(Vorns later, leading a revolution unlike anything Cybertron had ever witnessed, and gathering a few mechs he just knew he had helped to spark under his banner, he’d think back about his one-time lover, wondering if he should have made a bigger effort in tracking him down and bringing him by his side, for he realized the mech had probably died in the Praxus bombings, and whatever offspring they might have produced together with him._

_Then he would get shot in the shoulder by a young Autobot sniper, a new recruit taken under the wing of the Autobot’s SIC, one of the former city-state only survivors. A young, chatty mech with a red and grey paintjob, with quivering doorwings, blue optics, a red chevron, and a tendency to babble even more when he was nervous…_

_Had he thought about it for a moment before briefly blacking out because of the pain, then roar in rage and order his Decepticons to attack, letting all thought of a certain mech slip his mind for good, he would have smiled thinly, for he could now proudly state that no creation of him was a weakling.)_


	2. Survival in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They think Mirage doesn't know hardships? They think life in the Towers was sweet? They couldn't be further way from the truth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an old bunny on the tf_bunny_farm community.

The Rec Room was always an interesting place to be in, when one wanted to listen to the local Base gossip. Unbeknownst to most of them, SpeOps and members of the MP often mindled among them, under friendly faces, trying to track down dangerous rumors, judging who could be a potential threat or a traitor. Most mechs were harmless, just brash and sometimes drunk, but sometimes… Well, best not to dwell too much on it.

Truth to be told, the Rec Room was the place to rant when one had a problem with another Autobots. And some were more vocal than others. For now, a particularly strong conversation was taking way in a corner of the room, headed by a couple of agitated Minibots.

“Honestly, you’re too hard with him. I mean, I spoke to him once or twice. He sounded like a really decent fellow. And he certainly didn’t act like a ‘spoiled brat’, as you put it,” someone pointed out.

“Oh, come on! He’s a Noble! What does he know of hardships?! He was just like the other, a pampered, bratty prince!”

“The Towers fell,” one of them argued. “He probably suffered through the lost of most if not all of his family, as well as friends.”

“Woe him, then,” someone else snorted. “We all did, thank to these fragging Cons. He didn’t suffer more than any of us! If anything, he probably suffered less! Slagging Towers played Neutral so long the Cons didn’t target them until the very end! He probably kept his pampered existence ‘til he came here! He never dirtied his hands or had to suffer through hunger, or fear to be attacked whenever he was walking down a street!”

“So what? Don’t you think he miss them all? That he suffered enough?”

“Now, I think…”

“Hey, Mirage! What do you know of real hardships?! Nothing, I bet!” someone called out.

Mirage, Noble and spy in training, paused, the cube he had been about to drink being slowly put down on the table.

What did he knew about hardships?

My, such a question…

********

_He was ten vorns old, and his Creators were looking down at him with a frown because he couldn’t just read the datapad they had presented him with._

_“Well, Mirage?”_

_He was fumbling, trying very hard to decipher the text, but he could barely understand a glyph on two. He felt frustrated and sad, because he hated to disappoint his Creators, but no matter how hard he was trying, he just… couldn’t. His processors weren’t developed enough yet to fully analyze such complexes data as the epic poems enjoyed by the nobility scrolled down before him._

_The Sparkling flustered, cheeks reddening and trying to not cry. His Carrier sighed._

_“It’s useless, I see. Very well. Return to your… lessons, Mirage,” he said, dismissive, as his Bonded brooded. “And, Mirage? We’re very disappointed in you. You’re… very far from perfect.” There was something in his voice that sounded very dark, and Mirage nodded slowly, gulping down and almost running out of the room._

_“And no running! Dear Primus, what a disappointment he’s turning out to be…” was the last thing the blue Sparkling heard before the door closed behind him. ___

____

********

That how it all began.

It started with the treats one of the servants left in his berthroom. Fortunately, young Mirage hadn’t been hungry when he came in after a long lesson. His pet cybercat, however, had been. He died shortly after Mirage fed him a single treat, convulsing on the floor, mewling weakly as the Noble Sparkling watched him die, crying and calling for help.

None came.

It was the first time his Creators tried to poison him, but not the last. For Mirage wasn’t perfect, they had decided, and a Noble just had to be perfect. Anything short of perfection had to be… discarded. Infanticide wasn’t rare in the Towers, though the general populace never caught on, and the Enforcers, largely paid to keep quiet and not investigate, muted all rumors which sometimes spread. Nobles worked hard a giving of themselves a glamorous, beautiful image, and it wouldn't do for the common mechs to learn there were more to it.

What was underneath the glamour was worse than rotten. Mirage just hadn’t fully known how much until he was stated ‘imperfect’ and slated for deactivation. He wasn’t even the first of his line to live through that. According to archives he had hacked into as a Youngling, he was already the third Sparkling kindled by his Creators.

But if the records showed he had had brothers, he had no older siblings he had ever met or heard of. After all, eliminated imperfect Creations didn’t warrant the trouble of being spoken of, even in distaste. That, Mirage learned soon enough, when several of his friends died and their Creators didn’t even acknowledge anymore they had had sons or daughters, focusing instead on kindling again or grooming a younger Creation into the ‘perfection’ they sought so much.

That he managed to survive to adulthood was a miracle… and the result of years of sneaking around, listening to any noise, any voice betraying an harmful intention, of stealing uncontaminated fuel from the servant kitchen and hiding reserves in small, secret places in case his food supply would be cut.

He learned to dodge shots, to avoid getting stabbed. He learned to recognize tempered energon, to spot sabotaged rifles when he went to hunt down Turbofoxes with other Noble Younglings, and to hide and take cover when he had the slightest suspicion someone had been paid to shot at him rather than at the mechanimals they hunted. He learned to recognize drugged mechanimals, especially among the Turbohounds they used to hunt. He learned to listen to the small inflexions in a voice that indicated a lie, or tension, or anything threatening, really.

At the same time, he worked hard and long to try and be the perfect Creation his Creators wanted. He read, and practiced his dancing and music skills until his pedes hurts and his fingers shook as he tried to play the Photo-Violin and the Magna-Harp. He learned as many different Cybertronian languages as he could, to politely converse with the ambassadors and dignitaries who came to visit them. He tried to play the part of a good son in the dinners and parties his Creators regularly held.

He even went and got himself upgraded with new devices and weapons as to strengthen his frame. That how he came across the electro-disruptor, as he went through rare upgrades to try and make his Creators see that he had managed to correct his ‘imperfectness’, somehow. That he was the dutiful, perfect Creation they wanted him to be.

It never seemed to make them change their mind.

_“So imperfect, Mirage… You’re a real disappointment,”_ his Carrier always sighed each time he found his Creation lacking in something: lacking grace, lacking cleverness, lacking in knowledge, lacking in beauty, lacking in style,… Nothing Mirage did or say was enough. He didn’t recite poems with enough passion, he was not convincing enough when giving a speech, he kept hitting the wrong keys on the Electro-Piano, he was awkward when he danced, he was never polished enough…

The only saving grace they found in him was, perhaps, his marksmanship, which he easily demonstrated during the hunts. But it was far from enough to make them change their mind. Mirage had showed himself to be ‘imperfect’ once, and he would never find any grace in their optics again.

Still Mirage longed for their approval. And still murder attempts continued.

By the time the Towers fell, they weren’t even covert anymore, for his Creators had finally managed to kindle a replacement heir. He was living constantly under the cover of his newfound invisibility to escape searches and assassins. So, as much as it hurts to have lost his way of life and the innocent little life he had only see once, in its cradle… He couldn’t say he would ever miss the Towers. Jazz might have, for the Towers were a damn fine place to train Ops agents, if one thought about it. Mirage himself? He didn't think the place warranted any regret.

Mirage stayed silent for a moment before standing and looking regally at the huddled Minibots.

“You’re right,” he drawled. “I don’t know anything of your so-called ‘real hardship’.”


End file.
